Origin of Rogues
by FreedomOftheSeas
Summary: It is strange how each man has a unique existence – a fixed set of emotions and situations; yet each has a different story to tell. Sometimes, broken thoughts and images lie scattered within the mind's eye - reflections of one's life; frozen in time. What if those reflections suddenly ... came to life?


**Pairing**: Young Edward Teague, Young Jack Sparrow, Tia Dalma  
**Word Coun**t: 3,742  
**Beta**: ChaosandMayhem  
**Author's Note**: This is in response to the Pieces of Eight challenge on the _Black Pearl _Forum, answering "What if these pieces also had an additional piece of magic to them?"  
There are eight other stories in this challenge. Links to them can be found here: www dot fanfiction dot net/topic/67105/19502591/3/PotC-Fanfiction-Story-Recommendations#80473192  
**Summary**: It is strange how each man has a unique existence – a fixed set of emotions and situations; yet each has a different story to tell. Sometimes, broken thoughts and images lie scattered within the mind's eye - reflections of one's life; frozen in time.

What if those reflections suddenly ... came to life?

**~o~****~o~****~o~**

_**Origin of Rogues  
**_

_**~o~****~o~**_

On a high, lonely hilltop, thousands of miles to the north, in the deadest part of night, a small group of men knelt in prayer. It was a strange enough place to be praying, so lonesome and desolate, illumined only by the pale gleam of a half moon. The temple lay at the foot of the hill some way off, too remote to be of any comfort to these solitary figures. The only company they had – or knew of – was the rustling bushes all around, whistling in time with the sudden and irregular gusts of wind that spiraled over the bleak hilltop and cascaded down and over to the moaning pine forest below.

In the views of most, the priests of Siam were rather strange - they had to be mad to struggle up the steep hillside at their age, in the middle of the night, with nothing to protect them. Many times they cursed under their labored breath as they stumbled over rocks and stones strewn about the desolate landscape, remnants of their sacred temple destroyed by the locals who feared them. Their breaths wheezed within elderly windpipes as they persevered upward, but their resolve never wavered – such was the great need that drove them.

However strange they may have seemed, they were not dangerous, though they managed to unsettle almost everyone they came in contact with. Though usually harmless enough when silent and alone in their inscrutable thoughts, whenever they did give voice, it was always with a shrill and fiery tone – answering questions unasked and tales untold – and it made little to no sense to most that took care to listen.

The villages believed that these priests were cursed by the dead. The voices that taunted and commanded them, elicited delusions so explicate that they were shunned by the local people and even avoided by beasts and birds.

When the men finally reached the hilltop, they paused to gaze at the shallow depression where their ancient temple once stood – the last stones still intact, pointing like gloomy fingers toward the heavens. They felt no fear, only relief.

The head priest stood and shivered for a moment, before drawing his grey woolen robe tightly around him. His face was small and lean, like his body, and scarred with deep lines of age and hardship. As he made his way carefully down the treacherous side of the ruins, the hilltop suddenly became quiet, the stars were obscured by lowering storm clouds that blew steadily from the south, and the cool night air was soon filled with the familiar smell of moist soil.

Dropping to his knees on a flat prayer stone, the head priest reached into his cloak, unveiling a bundle of rags to reveal a solitary coin, which he placed on his forehead as he opened his heart to the heavens above.

Standing in a line, facing back over the ruined temple, were figures. It was difficult to tell exactly how many of them there were, as they manifested as shadows that shifted between obelisk and man. Their robes were also grey, the color of ash that had long forgotten the heat of fire, and like the priests, the grey-robed watchers stood silent and unmoving. As the storm clouds raced across the sky, the other priests soon followed their leader to the praying stone, placing their own coins upon their heads as they chanted, conversing openly and freely as the as the voices descended upon them once more.

_**~o~**_

The small port of Thaton stood in a hollow, dirty and disagreeable, as towns in Siam were not planned and possessed a sort of haphazard layout. Surrounding the desolate hole was a protective wall with two gated entrances, which took them almost half a day to get through. However, the spoils of trade within the great walls would ensure their efforts were worth the trip.

The _Aurora_ made port early before dawn to restore provisions for a long journey back to Madagascar, and the bustling Asian port in Thaton proved to be a satisfactory safe-haven to all walks of life, including pirates, yet not held to the same standards as Tortuga in the Caribbean. There were still dangers within the maze, as the locals were known to not easily accept foreigners from the Western World, though it was nothing the ruthless crew couldn't handle.

Unlike the rest of the bilge rats, a sea-worn and orphaned youth christened Edward Teague could not wait for his feet to touch land once more, whether it be home or not. Edward was not born for the sea, spending most of his adolescent life seeking refuge in a land without tyranny. In his journey to find a new home, he quickly discovered that those who shared his views never found such a place.

The realization of his error in believing such fantasies proved grave and branded the young man with the life of a forever-wanderer, never to call another land his home, and thus, the sea would take claim to him for the rest of his days. It changed him dramatically, just as it would for any other child of his age and circumstance, and his soul aged considerably from anger and solitude.

Nevertheless, Edward was a faithful deckhand – a person of no great significance – aboard the _Aurora_, captained by the fearless Pirate Lord of Madagascar, whom he regarded as the father-figure he never had. But to Edward's great misfortune, his Lord Captain did not share the same sentiment, and the boy became disregarded and unheeded.

As they disembarked in Thaton, Edward decided that he would not let these insecurities come between life and death aboard the vessel, and vowed to find his own way to win the crew's respect soon enough.

Fortunately, the city regained its charm just beyond the main gate, where the marketplace was bustling with merchants, farmers, and artisans selling their wares. Side by side with the merchant stalls were traveling musicians and jugglers, who performed before crowds for money. Colorful tents and banners added to the carnival atmosphere. The smell of street food and spices mingled together. Crumbling buildings were backed by even older ruins, but the roadways were clearly new and wound through the city, which was alive with movement. It was a strange place though, void of anything familiar, which was a frightening thought to those unaccustomed to travel.

Edward felt a strange comfort in the commotion, even stopping to enjoy a dark-skinned musician from a distant alleyway, lightly thumbing the strings of his guitar, and almost immediately, Edward felt a connection with the sound, as though for the first time in ages, he was not alone. With dreamlike clarity, he felt the music follow with every move, merging in rhythm. He thought of how it differed from his own strumming. It was as if the music had its own soul.

As the song ended with a harmonious note, a man in grey robes parted the crowd of onlookers, catching Edward's attention. He didn't seem like a man of great importance, but there was a strange aura about him, and the atmosphere changed almost immediately as he passed from cart to cart. The robes themselves were reminiscent of those he had seen most priests wear, but they were tattered, dirty, almost as if the man had spent many a night sleeping among dirt and grime.

Edward observed as the priest paused beside a peddler and merchant bargaining exuberantly for food. Talking soon turned into shouting; the merchant began to yell louder and enforced his argument with a knowing shake of his head. The bargaining seemed to be over as the vegetable merchant turned his back to the peddler and began to stride over to another interested customer. Edward had seen this happen many times before, but no other incident seemed to have bothered him until that moment. The priest also turned away, revealing an interesting sack tied to his side.

Though Edward was not sure of its value, since priests did not tend to travel all over, but perhaps this one acquired an item of worth transported along trade routes, which extended through the entire world. Priests often got a hold of items that fascinated the impressionable youth greatly. So what was wrapped up in that bundle of rags that had drawn his attention so strangely?

Glancing around to see if anyone was watching, Edward quietly emerged from the shadows, hiding behind the busy merchant's chart. He quickly squeezed his way through the fruit sacks, grabbing an apple for himself on the way.

Edward picked up his pace as he drew closer to the unsuspecting priest, colliding into him with a considerable force; the priest fell to the ground with a commanding _thud_.

Fumbling in haste, Edward hoped that the priest did not detect his hand grasping the greasy bundle at his waist. He helped the old priest up quickly - feeling a small twinge of remorse in his stomach - going so far as to swatting dust from his robes, acting as if it were a true accidental encounter before running off.

He could feel that the cloth was gritty in his pocket, the oily texture was encrusted with a layer of soil, and whatever it contained was discouragingly light. As Edward slyly slipped away in the surrounding crowd, he quickly unpeeled the mysterious object from its crude coverings, layer by layer, until its shape became clearly defined. Surely it must be an object of value, maybe a diamond or ruby? His captain would be most proud of his pickings.

Breathing heavily from his nervousness, he rounded the corner to the alleyway that previously offered him a dark sanctuary from prying eyes. Just then the sound of the priest's voice drew nearer, yelling oaths in a language unknown to him. Edward anticipated that in mere moments, he would be discovered, and made his best effort to stow himself out of sight.

Leaping up onto a pile of loose crates and a notched log leaning against the wall, which served him well as a make-shift ladder, Edward gained solitude upon a flat roof high above the streets. His heart was pounding like never before, and his anticipation grew steadily at the thought of discovering just what it was that he had pilfered. He tore away at the last remaining rag, and stared wide-eyed at his latest procurement.

_A coin? _And it was strange one at that, he groaned - highly displeased, slamming his feet contemptuously upon the rooftop. He knew nothing about the coin, where it came from, how old it was, and its shape was completely unfamiliar to him.

Edward had two clear options: it could have been worth nothing or something, but he chose to believe that – _perhaps _- it was worth more than all the relics in the market place. As he stared, mesmerized by the shape, a thousand thoughts raced through his mind as the sweat dripped from his body onto the coarse rooftop he was perched upon.

Then again, all of his efforts could have been a waste of time, knowing that he could not return to the ship without having pilfered something shiny for the crew. The safest route, he concluded, would be to return back to the marketplace and start from scratch. He rose cautiously from his sanctuary, wrapping the coin in the series of rags that once confined it, and observed the bazaar from the ledge above. Peering over numerous heads, Edward frantically cast his eyes over the street, looking for treasure once more, but to no avail.

What he found instead startled him more. Amidst the crowd, staring straight into his eyes was the priest he had pick-pocketed. The frail man held his hands before him with interlaced fingers, standing firmly, gaze unwavering. Though, he did not seem angry. In fact, Edward could not find the right words to describe the expression he wore – it was as if years of burdens were lifted from his spirit.

"_Give it back_."

The demand alarmed him, so much so that Edward tripped over his own feet, slipping from the ledge of the rooftop and dangerously close to falling down to the marketplace below, if his fingertips hadn't caught the edge. Mustering all the strength he possessed to hold on, Edward attempted to lift himself back over the ledge, until a shadow was cast over him, stealing his attention.

It was a shadow of a boy his height and weight that stood above him. A mop of black hair framed a face all too familiar, adorned with piercing dark eyes that narrowed in disapproval.

Steadying himself, Edward rubbed his eyes, convinced that the blistering heat was slowly driving him to madness.

Was he truly staring at a replica of _himself_? He thought the sun was wrong, and that his hair was shading his eyes, so with one hand, he held his hair back at the nape of his neck – but that hardly helped.

The shadow was his, true, but his face was rough and frightening. The apparition did not move forward, but bent slightly at the waist, hands extended to his chin, forcing Edward to look up into his eyes.

"_That's not yours, give it back_."

Just then, another figure began to take shape in the corner of his eye, and to Edwards dismay, he also was an exact replica.

"_Finders keepers_," said the other, in a child-like tone. "_We can't go back without it_."

As both apparitions drew near, Edward's fear wouldn't allow him to hold on any longer. He fell two stories to the ground, with only a pile of crates to cushion his fall.

_**~o~**_

Edward propped himself up in the darkness, staring toward the night sky. It happened so quickly, yet seemed to take so long. Surreal expressions of the apparitions burned in his mind's eye. Where ever he looked, his face would follow. His eyes told him it was real, but he still questioned it earnestly.

The boy laid back, panting. He tried to gather his thoughts, place himself and where he was. Gradually the mists cleared and he remembered. The priest's image filled his mind; he shuddered. Though the world had grown considerably dark around him, he blinked, trying to focus on his surroundings, but his eyes were unable to capture enough light to help. Panic grasped at his heart as he looked down the empty street, wondering how long he had been out.

Edward quickly freed himself from the rubble and began running back to port, hoping the ship hadn't left without him. Each step drove pure, sharp pains into every bone of his body; his only relief came as the light emanating from the _Aurora's _lanterns greeted him through the obscurity. However, the momentary relief seemed so bleak compared to the images still seared into his memory.

The ring of the second dog watch bell sent the youth sprinting up the ship's gangway. Edward's frantic speed made him nothing but a flash to the night watchers along the main deck. He stumbled, turning into the main deck's companionway, making his way below decks with the same vigor of a pirate being chased by the Royal Navy.

Edward finally found solace on the cold, wooden floorboards beneath his hammock, where he collapsed flat on his back, wiping beads of sweat from his brow as he scrambled for some sort of security. Once he regained his breath, the sharp pains from his fall became present again and magnified with each proceeding movement. He spent a few moments coughing uncontrollably, holding his sides in anguish.

Feeling utterly alone and helpless, Edward closed his eyes and wished the world away.

A few hours had passed by the time he returned to consciousness; he awoke anxious, feeling the strangest and most unusual feeling of flying without moving. Edward grasped at the sack in his pocket, feeling the small object through the cloth. The sensation he began to experience wasn't unpleasant, just strange and illusory.

With his eyes a daze, he began to hear voices - strange callings that seemed calm and intent, allowing him to feel a deep connection to the idea that the world was not the same, but rather, that something new had happened and he was no longer the same either.

He had permission to be anew.

Although he laid cold and protected by a blanket from all the pain of his past, at that moment, more than ever, he wanted to live.

"_Time to get up, boy_."

_**~o~**_

"My, how ya've grown," she drawled; her accent as thick and sweet as cane syrup. As he leaned back, the warmth of his body began to seep into her very soul. She rested her chin on his shoulder and flashed a black-toothed grin. "You are bound to me now, Jack."

"Payment was fair enough, then?" he asked curtly, with an underlying hint of regret.

"A young, refined man such as yaself," she went on, tracing her fingers along his bare shoulders. "I find it strange dat ya would come to me."

Her eyes traced the floor, finding the ornate coin beside them, shining in the light of the moon. She retrieved the small piece, feeling its power radiating in her palm and slowly closed her fingers over it.

"Dis holds no value to me, and no longer to da man you took it from, but to _you_…" she mused, eyes glimmering at the notion of knowing something he didn't. "To _you_..."

_It was his key._

A large smile appeared on her face as she began running gentle fingertips through Jack's dark mane, traveling down the back of his neck, unable to halt her desire to plunge downward, exploring his great, freshly scarred shoulders. Jack grimaced, capturing her hand gently. She watched his posture sag, as if he was burdening some pronounced, oppressive weight.

His hair was long then, longer than it had been in years past, but he was a changed man; she could sense it. No longer was he a boy playing soldier with naïve notions of hope and justice – Jack was a man of rage with a thirst for revenge that would not be denied at any cost.

Of all the things that change in the world, few things remain unchanged in the realm of man – the soul was one. Yet, his had been tainted, for he had confined his heart within the exclusive pursuit of the good in his world. She had long understood that passage and its consequences: filling souls with distress, fears, and regrets.

To calm his spirit, she quietly took to braiding his hair, decorating the ends with beads from her own dreadlocks. They said nothing for a time. It seemed as though Jack was in no mood to elaborate on the events that influenced his visit, or the price he had paid for her assistance.

"Do ya see things, Jack?" she finally whispered in his ear, noting that his disappointment quickly transformed to surprise.

He turned to glare at her; his eyes bloodshot, the dark hollows beneath emphasizing his fatigue.

"Ah, ya have, now," she concluded, very satisfied with her discovery. "I knew et." She had seen this expression once before, with his father. No doubt Jack was undergoing the same challenges.

Letting her gaze linger on the angular planes of his face, she looped a small braid, attaching the coin to its temporary home. It hung down freely to touch his forehead.

Their eyes locked momentarily; it was then that she knew what he needed most.

"You are fo'ever changin'. Destined to be cast from _their _Society, because of ya weak heart." She ran her thumb lightly over the fresh, "P" shaped scar on his forearm. "A sheep cannot be amongst da wolves."

A thick cloak of tension filled the room; she could feel it, for it was a truth the young man couldn't begin to fathom. "Do not think yaself a fool. Ya must be faithful to that which is within," she asserted, passionately placing her hands on his chest – just above his heart.

Abruptly, he pushed her away. "Easier said than done-" He clenched his jaw, cutting off the words. "I'm hugely impressed, tart, but I haven't the time or the patience to be lectured."

"Ah, Jack … Jack, time is all ya have, and ya may find, one day, that you have less _time _than ya think," she replied knowingly, placing her hands on her hips as she surveyed a pile of junk on the floor. "Now, let me see," she muttered, shifting through countless strange antiques for several long moments as Jack stood by - eyebrows arched with a hint of boyish curiosity. "Ah, 'ere et is!" She stooped down to scoop up a small object.

The woman felt a small flash of fresh energy; it made her smile as she opened her hands to Jack and held out the object. "It feels like you."

Alarmed, he took a step back, arms raised and fingers fluttering. "I never even touched it! I swear to it."

"It's yours now, if you want et," she said through a wide grin.

He looked down at the object in her hand. The antique appeared to be a domed covered disc, engraved with a compass rose. The four points were set with a map of the heavens above. He was instantly fascinated.

"Does it work?" he breathed, curling his lip upward into a small grimace. Gently, he took the compass from her, examining it closely as it spun wildly before his eyes. It felt good in his hands, warm and comfortable, as if it were made for him.

"It don't work dat way," she instructed, cupping her hands gently around his. "But what is et you want most?"

"I want my bloody ship back, Tia," he answered mockingly, rolling his eyes.

She gave him a stern look, placing her hands upon his heart once more. "_Be faithful to that which is within_."

Again, he focused his eyes into the disc, watching it continue to spin, and his mind took him, freely and clearly, to the sea – to the waves that dashed against the rocks in impotent fury, how he could spend his life on the water, sailing on and on, to unknown and uncharted seas.

The needle stopped.

With wide eyes agleam, her inward soul trembled at the needle's position.

"I cannot bring back ya ship, Jack Sparrow," she finally whispered. "But I can tell ya who can."

_**~o~**_

**Author's Note**: This is in answer to the Pieces of Eight challenge on the _Black Pearl_ Forum. There are eight other stories in this challenge. Links to them can be found here: www dot fanfiction dot net/topic/67105/19502591/3/PotC-Fanfiction-Story-Recommendations#80473192


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